Where we are

At the risk of going off into a huge moan I'm going to keep this brief(ish).

Here is where we stand.
Last week, as you may imagine, lead to much wailing, pulling of hair and gnashing of teeth, I wager that that particular Jehovah's Witness won't be too quick to invite himself around again, but anyway, I digress.

Last week I got, ...how can I phrase this eloquently enough to grace these pixels...er yes, that's it, I got mightily pissed off. Call it worry, frustration, lashing out, desperation, anger or simply being a bit of a prick, I don't know but that's the way it was.

I think for the first time ET got a glimpse of just how important this all is to me, not just to her, or us as a couple, but to me personally. Now I know all you Dr. Philophiles are gasping in horror at what must have been an abhorrent breakdown in communications but you can all just go take a nice long walk off a short plank, I'm Irish, raised Catholic, and a man, that's just how we do it...I don't tell anyone what's going on in my head for 52 years until some overworked vessel pops and I collapse in a stroke struck heap on the patio floor and die. Probably while still wearing flip flops and white socks, just to add insult to fatal injury.

Anyway, long story short, ET went to our doctor today in order to see what the Dutch medical profession's opinion on our situation is. Credit where it's due, the 17 year old doctor was not as dismissive as I had feared and was quite reassuring in fact.
We are a good age, in decent health, and on the face if it ET is showing no clear signs of any problems, yadda, yadda, yadda, - "Google" anyone?

So, they are happy to let her take a back seat for the moment and your's truly will become the stage 1 guinea pig. I guess it makes sense as any tests or check for me would be a lot less invasive (mortal shame and embarrassment aside of course) and so, in the 2nd half of next week I'll be paying my own visit to our prepubescent GP so he can explain to me where/when/what/how and who I need get busy with.
Aside from the fact I'm pretty sure that a conversation on that particular subject between a man of my age and a 'man' of his age would have me incarcerated in 46 US states (I SOOOO want to add 'and elected in the other 4', but I won't, as it's childish).

So there you have it, only days after posting a tongue in cheek entry about having to 'knock one out' for the sake of science, it looks like I will be handing out free samples after all, sooner rather than later.

If anything I get this feeling we are moving further and further away from what we want, but in some perverted way, it's a relief, to have a direction, even if it does look like our life directing TomTom has lost touch with the satellites, but hey, I wouldn't expect any different at this stage.

Over and out.

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Totally separate subject matter now

Please don't forget to give Dan @ All that comes with it a quick read eh?

Go on, you'll be happy you did.
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Good Guys

At a bit of a loss as to what I should write, especially considering as I don't particularly know what I should even think of late.

Having said that I came across a blog entry that I urge you all to read, there aren't many good guys around these days, so those that are, should be appreciated.

Have a read of what Dan @ All that comes with it has to say. It's worth your time, and maybe even your money. I know it will touch you all.

FYI

This all sucks big time.

Just thought I'd let you know.

The Sleep

I'm just going to ignore the fact that it's 00:30 in the am of Tuesday 22nd January, yes thats Tuesday, not Monday. Monday 21st January when a visitor was due, and has not shown their face.
My mind is in a heap and I've no doubt that sleep will also be a stranger tonight.

As if I wasn't melancholy enough this evening, I received the most remarkable email from my sister in the United States. She sent me a photograph scanned in from an old copy of an Irish local paper from 2 years ago. The picture is of a group of national school girls from a rural County Cork primary school in 1946.

Sitting on the far right of the front row - my mother.


I had never even thought of her as a child, let alone see a picture of her as one, there she is, the biggest smile of them all, just an 11 year old girl.
By the time I reached that age, she was gone.

A message, a sign, or a simple coincidence perhaps, but I've never wanted to believe as much as I do right now.

Good night, sleep well.

Your Cup Runneth Over

Yet again inspired by DooDaddy, (you're on a roll!) I started to wonder about stuff that might happen further down the line. That is if I don't dismember myself through frustration first.

Fertilty tests.

Now, bear in mind I'm not being unsympathetic or anything, I know that the ladies get poked and prodded something fierce, but MY concern lies elsewhere.

....Namely, filling the plastic cup.....

A few things would bother me.

-What if I saw someone coming out of the room they usher me into?
Thats just gross, I'd be afraid to sit anywhere, I'd have to stand, and that's just impractical. Honest, try it, it's difficult not to fall over, and a nurse running in upon hearing the thump and fining you on the floor with your pants around your ankles is not great for the moment.

-How would I know they're not watching?
Perversions aside, surely they'd need to verify where the sample 'came' from?

-Do they provide reading material?
If so, is it of sufficient quality. You see I live in Holland, and the Dutch are, let's say "forward"about these things.
Not a day goes by when I don't catch a glimpse of someone or other's wobbly bits on terrestrial television, therefore my 'titilation' levels are higher than you're average fat white man

-What if I were to miss the target?
How big are these things? I know from days long passed that my aim with most firearms is inconsistent to say the least. Would they come and scrape up samples from the door handle, or TV remote, or carpet? What if they scraped up the previous guy's wandering sample by mistake?
I mean, as over dramatic as I may be, I don't fancy living in a Whoopie Goldberg movie.

-What size is it?
What if it were really small and started to to overflow? or worse still, what if it's really big and they needed a microscope to even see the sample, never mind analyse it?

-How much is enough?
A teaspoon full?, a shot glass full?, enough to drown a mouse?, tell me damnit!

-How long should you stay in there?
If you "exit" too quickly they're bound to think you're a bit freaky and perverted and snigger at you.
If you stay too long they're going to be mumbling under their breath that it's no surprise one of the blighters hasn't taken hold if it takes you that that long.
Whats the right length of time in order to maintain your dignity?
Is that even possible as you're standing there in a queue at reception, all puffy and red faced, with the product of your teenage shame in one hand and papercuts from 'Bridget Does Boston' on the other.

-Would I even remember how to do it?
Would they allow partners in to assist?

-Would they accept a tube sock for analysis?

-How would I explain it all to Granny?
She always told me if I kept touching it, it would fall off.


And for all the great comments last time around, thanks very much. In summary, women think I need to relax and most of the guys think I need to get drunk and partake in some homosexual activity, or steal children. I'll think about it guys, honest.

And for when I start moaning, take plenty of no notice, after all, I'm a bit of a wanker.

Not wanting to want

While I'm still working on my post about my (frankly fabulous) hair for DooDaddy, I got to thinking about why the blog spark has started to fade.

I'm barely checking my reader, comments are few and far between and as for updating this malignant rodent of a blog, I am struggling to muster enough interest.

The question is - "what's changed?"

The answer is - "nothing". Absolutely nothing, time continues to pass and the disappointments accumulate and build and become heavier burdens to bear with each passing month.
The frustrations lead to undirected anger and therefore to silence, longer and longer periods of silence.

Which way do I turn?

Should I continue to dust off, jump up and start again, over and over. Blindly pretending against my natural belief that ignorance really IS bliss, or should I allow what I fear is already creeping in to take grip. Not wanting to want.

While I desperately want to tell myself to brush the moth balls from my, well, balls, and get on with trying to retain some ounce of testosterone, that really is what January has brought, an instinct to block it all out. All the day dreams, the ghostly imagined giggles, the lists of names never to be claimed, the blog entries full of excitement and pride, the online photo galleries never filled, and the small hand that never gets held.

With none of these running around my mind I get through my day more efficiently, I don't double take when I see my neighbour returning home exhausted from soccer with his 7 year old catching a piggy back, I don't live in dread of the news that will inevitably come next Monday, basically, I don't want to want.

But who am I kidding?


EDIT: Tuesday 15 Jan 10am
Just to clarify, we are most definitely not giving up or stopping, that was never in question.
It's just the energy to keep trying that's fading, SO much energy required, more mental than physical.

Many many thanks for your comments, it's quite touching.

I'm Sterile

Yep folks, I'm "Blogingly Infertile".

Dried up, barren, and totally incapable of coming up with a blog entry. I cannot reproduce anything worthy of writing, or reading.

I could show you this photograph I took while hiding in the truck of a Turkish tree.


But that's just blaaah!


I could tell you that the latest google search to find it's way here was 'How to stop pigs from escaping' but that's just soooo passe daaaahlings.

I could tell you how I'm on the verge of mental ruin, we are 1 week shy of 9 months of trying to get just 1 lousy non-crippled sperm to bump into one relatively large egg. It's like trying to hit a barn door with a bazooka, and it just ain't happening.

So in 1 week my mental pregnancy is up, and something's gonna pop out....

Bicycles

As I simply cannot stomach another baby rant, and I don't do resolutions, you lot can have another entry from my history of idiocy.

Here in Holland, the bike is King.

The country is flatter than [insert name of any ex-girlfriend or undesirable here].
The infrastructure is tremendous for cyclists, cycle paths & lanes, traffic lights, special sign posting etc have all been heavily invested in, making it an environmentalist's wet dream.

So, upon my arrival in this fair land more than 6 and a half years ago, I decided I was going to fully integrate and cycle everywhere.

This I did with great enthusiasm.
To work, to shops, to visit friends, to appointments, to restaurants, and to bars. To lots of bars.

What amazed me almost as much as the widespread use of bikes was the fact that I had never fallen off, not once, not even while in one of my more inebriated and animated states.

That claim to fame was soon to be short lived.

One Friday, I hopped up on my 'fiets' as normal, and started to pedal home with all the excitement of the weekend to come rattling around in my otherwise empty head.
As is often the case my enthusiasm got the better of me and before I knew it I was speeding along the bike path much faster than normal.
Through the bio-science park I sped, faster around the roundabout, faster still past the stables, and even faster still along the canal.
Faster and faster and faster, the wind blowing through my Nr2 short back and sides.
My route took me alongside the edge of a construction site, faster and faster and faster.

Then it happened.

Before I knew it, I cycled right over a stray brick from the construction site, at high speed, sending my bike and it's idiot rider through the air.
Face first I flew, arms outstretched, only stopping when the cage-like railings surrounding the site brought my first solo flight to an abrupt and painful stop.

There I was, 5 feet off the ground, head & forearms inside the railings, the rest of me outside, spread like a backwards crucifixion, and worst of all, stone cold sober.
My arms had gone through the wire railings like two long pairs of gloves only to be caught by the bars at the elbows.

I hung there for a few seconds, my bike circling to a halt like a New Years drunkard succumbing to unconsciousness below me.

TWO PEOPLE CYCLED PAST ME. And pedaled onwards. To this day I don't know why they didn't stop or acknowledge the fact that there was a floppy Irishman suspended spreadeagled half way up the site's railings while they swerved to avoid his abandoned bike in their path.

I managed to remove my face from the railing, reverse my arms back from the now blade like wire which had only half succeeded in dismembering me, and drop on my ass onto the relative comfort and safety of a banjacksed bicycle five feet below.
Stunned and in no little pain, I gathered myself, my bike, and my two arms and hobbled the last mile home.

ET's face when she returned home to see me attempting to administer first aid to myself with two blood soaked forearms, was a site to behold.

The expletive based adjectives she used to describe me and my stupidity would make your Mammy's ears bleed.

I've learned not to speed through a construction site even if it is a Friday, and having the inside of both your elbow-pits cut through to the bone is somewhat painful.

I live to tell the tale.

Wordless..er...Thursday

Just seconds into 2008, the sky above our house, 3 cheers for flamboyant neighbours.

It gets better

"Emerald Isle Wife Swaps" has been added to the list of searches ending up here...